Safety Net
by Can'tStopImagining
Summary: A tough case, a new friendship on the edge of turning into something more, and some pretty strange coincidences. A/C case-based story, set in season 13.
1. Prologue

"You're still here?"

Casey has no idea what the time is. For the past week or so, it's felt like she never leaves the office, the amount of time she spends at home becoming less and less until she wonders why she even bothers leaving work. Would Jack McCoy fire her if he found her curled up on her couch with a blanket one night? It would save her money in cab fares and subway tickets.

She looks up at Alex and winces. She's spent so much time staring at her computer screen, and then at scrawled notes, and back and forth again, that her vision has gone blurry and she could probably stand to borrow the elegant black-rimmed glasses that are perched on the blonde's nose like always. At some point, her office got dark, and she hadn't even noticed to turn on a lamp.

"I'm still here," she confirms, lamely, "are you heading out?"

She realises how stupid a question that is as soon as it leaves her mouth, a quick glance downwards telling her that of course Alex is heading home; she's wearing her coat, and her attaché is in her hand, her car keys dangling from her fingers. Casey would blame it on being tired, but the frequency with which stupid questions leave her mouth when Alex is involved would prove it a lie. She'd rather not perjure herself.

"About to, yes. I think if I spend a second longer in this building I might combust," she pauses, frowning, "you ought to think about doing the same."

It's a sensible suggestion, and Casey does feel a little like she's been caught with her hand in the cookie-jar, embarrassed to be being told off for staying late. Still, something within her complains at the thought of leaving. It isn't even really that her workload doesn't permit it... she's not sure exactly what it is, except maybe that her cold, empty apartment doesn't exactly sound appealing.

Still, walking to the parking lot with Alex, holding a conversation if only for a few minutes, maybe avoiding heading home so late that it's practically morning by the time she gets into bed...

"You're right," she says, pushing away from her desk before she can talk herself out of it, "I'm going to call it a night now, too."

Alex opens her mouth to speak but before words can form, the whirring of Casey's fax machine interrupts her. They both frown at the sudden noise, Casey halfway through putting her coat on, and Alex still leaning in her doorway.

"Good to know somebody else, somewhere, is working late too," Casey comments, absentmindedly heading over to the machine where it lives in the corner. Between email and cell phone technology being what it is, the fax machine is nowhere near as busy as it once was. In fact, Casey can't remember the last time something came through her machine, though her secretary every so often still brought freshly printed pages to her.

"Don't let it trick you into staying," Alex warns, "see you tomorrow, Case."

So much for walking together, Casey thinks as she watches Alex's retreating form. She bends to slide the sheet of paper out of the fax machine, debating whether to leave it until tomorrow or take a peek now, just in case it's something important. On the one hand, it's out of office hours and she could definitely get away with pretending she hasn't seen it until morning. On the other, with Alex gone, there are less and less reasons for her to leave right away. This could be the distraction she needs to keep her in the office a little longer.

With a sigh, she flips the printed page over, angling it under her desk lamp so she can actually read the damn thing. The print is tiny, and there's no cover sheet info to tell her who it's from. Maybe a wrong number, then? She reads through it, anyway, recognising a passage from the Old Testament as soon as she's read past the first line. Either a wrong number, or a prank, she decides, balling the print out up and throwing it into the trash.

Maybe if she walks fast enough, she can catch Alex up.


	2. Chapter 1

Alex has been staring at the same two lines of writing for at least twenty minutes when a knock on her office door drags her out of her spiralling thoughts and back into reality. Without waiting for a response, the door opens, and Casey slips in. In her hands, she's carrying a paper coffee travel holder with two steaming cups in it, and a brown paper bag. Alex brightens considerably.

"Fuel for the fire," Casey murmurs, unpacking everything, the paper rustling as she draws out two pastries, then two bagels, sets them out carefully on Alex's desk, pausing only to lick a stray crumb from her finger tips. She hands Alex a coffee, and sips on her own.

Even through the exhaustion, Alex manages a smile. Her eyes travel unwittingly along the smooth lines of Casey's body, perched on the edge of her desk in a spot which might as well have her name on it by now, one leg crossed over the other. As if she belongs there. As if there's nowhere else in the world she should be other than here.

"How's it going?" Casey asks, glancing down at the assortment of open books just right of her hip, the pile of papers in front of Alex.

"It's not," Alex says, bluntly. She gestures to her messy desk, "I'm struggling to build a case. Even with Brittany Anderson testifying, the lack of physical evidence and motive... it's like trying to build a house out of paper straws."

Casey's eyes scan over the deposition in front of Alex, the photographs of a crime scene without a body. They've been working this trial prep for weeks, and it's beginning to take its toll on both of them, but Alex especially. Her usually perfect hair is in a messy ponytail, her eyes tired behind her glasses, her skin grey-tinted with exhaustion.

"We know Flora Anderson is dead. The cops know it, her family know it, Johnson knows it. We just have to prove it in court. You don't think Warner's testimony will be enough, combined with the family?"

It's the same circle they've danced around in for weeks, with evidence being thrown out by the defence finding any and every loophole they can, Benson and her squad not being able to find the character witness they need to fill in the gaps. It's never easy to try a murder without a body, but this is proving impossible, even if they wanted to go for a lesser charge. Even Man 2 wouldn't stick with the flimsy case they've built.

Alex slips her glasses from her face and pinches the bridge of her nose, letting her eyes drift closed, and Casey watches her. It's crazy to think that only a few years ago, she would have thought nothing rattled the infallible Alexandra Cabot, but working so closely under her for the last nine months has more than proved her wrong. Her eyes, usually clear and bright blue, are stormy, trouble evident across the lines of her face. She isn't just losing confidence in their case; she's giving up.

"We don't have a body. We can't trace the ex-girlfriend. All Zachary Johnson has to do is flash that charmingly crooked smile at the jury, and they'll be eating out of the palm of his hand. Nobody's going to believe he murdered the girl when we can't even prove that she's dead."

Casey bites her lip, "the blood in the apartment—"

"Circumstantial," Alex dismisses, "the sister's testimony is a he-said/she-said. We can't even prove that he was living with her whilst she was under-age, let alone bedding her, so there goes statutory rape. This case is so thin it's just about ready to snap in half."

Studying her for a moment, Casey puts her hand over Alex's where it rests on the desk, just for a second, before drawing back, "as long as it's only the case that's threatening to break under the strain."

Alex looks at her and for a second she looks like she might argue, before the fight in her fizzles out. She smiles wryly.

"Sometimes I wonder why I came back to this job. I had a way out. I should have taken it."

Casey almost agrees, but then what's the point in both of them being in a bum mood?

"I went the extra half mile to that bakery in Queens that you love," she says, changing the subject, "figured we could spare the time. This case is going nowhere - you deserve a break."

Smiling gratefully, Alex reaches for the paper wrapped croissant that until now has sat untouched. It's unnerving how quickly Casey has picked up on little details like how she takes her coffee and where she likes her danishes from, but Alex finds she doesn't entirely mind. She'll take that over the animosity that had been present between them back when they'd first started sharing the SVU's caseload. They could both be incredibly stubborn; their work had improved tenfold as soon as they both backed down and realised they actually made quite a good team.

Still, the thought of genuinely _liking_ Casey Novak hadn't really occurred to Alex until the feeling had basically already snuck up on her. Years of indifference towards the younger ADA had been replaced by almost resenting her once Alex learned that it was Casey who had taken over SVU in her absence, but she'd grown to respect her during her attempted murder trial. Still, it had always been hard to shake off the memory of her all doe-eyed, staring at Alex in court, back when she herself was barely old enough to be second-chairing, no attempts at hiding the awe on her face as she watched the trial commence around her.

It's hard to believe she's sitting next to the same woman, even if it is over a decade later. Harder still to acknowledge that the last few months working with her, have been some of the best.

"This case needs to be iron-clad, or McCoy'll bury it," Casey says, around a mouthful of pastry, swallowing before continuing, "it's no good us working ourselves into an early grave, or we won't be around to see the bastard get what's coming to him. Maybe we need to strip the whole thing back to basics, start sifting through the evidence all over again. Maybe there's something we've missed."

Alex groans, chewing quickly so she can respond. "I've already tried that. Without a body…"

"I know, we're screwed. But we've built cases on less before."

"It's tissue-thin, Case. Unless we can dig up Chelsea Fitzpatrick, and she can substantiate the sister's story - or better yet, testify that she _saw_ the murder - all we have is the word of a family who didn't like their daughter's boyfriend, and a pool of blood that could have been caused by just about anything. We don't even have a time-frame."

"Or," Casey says, considering, "Chelsea Fitzpatrick is another victim, and there's a reason why we can't find her."

Alex scoffs, "great, another murder we can't prove."

"I'll try digging into the Fitzpatricks again, see if I can at the very least find a relative who is willing to talk to me. Maybe that's it. Maybe we have to consider Chelsea as a second missing person, build a case around her disappearance until we can link the two and hope it all stems back to Zachary Johnson."

Brushing crumbs off her lap, Alex looks at her for a moment, a weird expression on her face, a puzzled sort of smile that makes Casey feel self-conscious.

"Have you always been so hands-on with your investigations? I can't imagine Olivia liked that very much."

"She didn't."

"Well, you know you're my second chair, not my assistant. This isn't about you doing the leg-work but getting none of the credit. I can do some digging too."

Casey smiles, slightly, scrunching her paper bag into a ball, "I'm happy to do it. I always considered myself a little Nancy Drew."

"Cute," Alex's tone shows she doesn't mean it as a dismissal, "meanwhile, I'll be drowning in paperwork."

"See, you're right - I'm _not_ your assistant, or I'd be drowning in it for you."

* * *

By the time Casey gets home, she's exhausted. Between finishing off paperwork, and going on a wild goose chase trying to track down a missing girl, she's barely had a moment's pause, and her grumbling stomach is reminder enough that she skipped dinner. Running around the city on nothing but a croissant and several cups of coffee had nearly wiped her out completely.

Fortunately, there's leftover take-out waiting for her in the fridge, and she pours herself a glass of wine to go with it, swearing not to touch anything work related for at least a couple of hours.

Her apartment is a mess, and she has to move a pile of books off the couch to sit down and eat, but that's hardly surprising anymore. She's barely home enough to keep anything tidy. From out of the stack, an envelope slides out, and Casey rolls her eyes. Of course; she'd collected her mail two days ago and thrown it down here along with everything else. She sets her dinner down on the corner of the coffee table, balances her fork along the plastic container's rim, clearing a sport for her wine glass, and rips the envelope open. Inside is a blank sheet of white paper, and a receipt for a coffee shop Casey frequents. She frowns, trying to make sense of it. The coffee shop wouldn't have sent the receipt? The front of the envelope is hand-written, with her name and her address. The blank sheet of paper is exactly that - blank.

Her cellphone rings, and Casey picks it up, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that's come over her.

"Novak," she murmurs, tucking the phone into her shoulder, so she can continue to examine the letter.

"Hey, I found something." It's Nick Amaro. Casey frowns, for a second unsure of what he's talking about, before she remembers that she'd asked him to trawl Zachary Johnson's call history. She'd hoped he might somehow happen across Chelsea Fitzgerald.

"Great," she says, tucking the contents of the envelope back inside, and adding it to a pile of papers on the coffee table as Nick goes through some of the names on the list, most of whom he's cleared as unimportant. Except for one. She swaps the phone to her other ear, paying more attention now, "can you send me the address? I'll check it out."

Once she hangs up the phone, she messages Alex to update her, asks her assistant to clear her schedule for the morning, and finally tucks into her dinner.

* * *

Fashion magazines, with their glossy over-edited pictorials and fists full of adverts starring tiny waisted, long legged, tanned models, have never really been of interest to Casey. She's never been the kind of girl to give a crap what people think of her appearance, though unfortunately it's part and parcel of having a job at the DA's office. Even dressed in a smart suit and with a pair of expensive heels, a matching handbag that's only looking slightly worn draped over her arm, and her hair and make up as close to perfection as Casey has ever managed, she feels out of place the second she sets foot inside the large glass building that serves as Delite Magazine's headquarters.

The front desk appears to be made of marble, the perfectly-groomed, impossibly tiny receptionist looking more like she belongs on the pages than at a desk, and the floor is polished enough Casey can almost see her reflection in it. Even the air smells floral and sweet, as if perfume is being pumped through the air conditioning, This is definitely the kind of place that isn't going to hand over information without a warrant. Casey's appearance alone earns her a sceptical look from the receptionist, who wears a headset over glossy hair, manicured fingers hovering over a white computer keyboard. As Casey approaches, the honey-blonde crosses her arms. Though her posture says otherwise, her greeting is welcoming.

"Good morning m'am, can I help you?"

Dragging her eyes away from the huge glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and back to the receptionist, Casey forces a smile, "hi. I have a meeting with Chelsea Fitzpatrick?"

The woman behind the desk frowns, "I'm afraid we don't have anybody by that name are you sure you're at the right building?"

Well, it was worth a try.

Thinking fast, Casey corrects herself. "Oh, that's right, I think she changed her last name, though I can't for the life of me—-"

"Ah, you must mean Ms. McNamara," the receptionist supplies, falling straight into the trap, "though I believe she's out of office today. I'm sorry you've come all this way for nothing, I can have her call you to rearrange?"

Casey fixes the sweetest smile she can muster onto her face and shakes her head, "that's okay. I'll call her myself. Thank you though," she reads the name on the blonde's badge, "Marissa, you've been very helpful."

As soon as she's out of the door, her posture drops and she exhales, feeling instantly more comfortable and relaxed. She pulls her cellphone out of her pocket, and dials, waiting a beat whilst the call connects and the recipient answers.

"Alex? I think I've found Chelsea Fitzpatrick."

* * *

Alex has barely shed her jacket from lunch when her office door swings open, and angry footsteps are approaching her desk. With the headache that has been drumming away at her skull for the last few hours, Olivia Benson's wrath is the last thing she needs. Sighing, she sets her pen down and looks up at her old friend. Even with a face like thunder, there's no denying that the detective is just as beautiful now as she was a decade ago, when they first met. More than a decade, in fact. The years might have added some lines here and there, but she's still the same Liv Benson Alex knows and loves.

"Care to explain to me why Amaro and I have spent the last hour chasing a dead-end lead on a case we've already handed over to you, instead of working on our own over-flowing case-load?"

"Because Captain Cragen asked you to?" Alex offers, dryly. Seeing the fire spark in Olivia's eyes, she sighs, softening, "I take it Casey's Chelsea Fitzpatrick lead didn't pan out?"

Liv nods, though her posture doesn't change, her hands firmly on her hips, her mouth a thin, hard line. "We wasted thirty minutes stuck in uptown traffic, and Chelsea McNamara is a 49 year old divorcee who has never even heard of Zachary Johnson. Maybe your office should leave the detective work to those of us who actually know what we're doing."

"As far as I was aware, the lead originated from _your_ partner, Detective. Casey was following it up to save you time."

"Well, she should have done a more competent job."

Alex swallows, leaning across the desk on her arms, and narrowing her eyes at Liv, "why aren't you in her office yelling at her then? I'm not in charge of her, you know."

"Maybe you ought to be."

Shaking her head, Alex tries to stare her old friend down, but Olivia knows her well enough to see through it, and gives as good as she gets. Surely she realises how uncomfortable this is for Alex? It's akin to her walking into Liv's squad room, going to her desk, and demanding an explanation for something Amaro or Rollins or Fin has done. It's not fair.

Then again, she's known for a while that this might be a problem. Even if she's been ploughed under with work, she's observant enough to have noticed a pattern in Olivia's behaviour, to see that most of the heavy cases, the more challenging ones, have landed on her desk, and not Casey's, that Olivia is always more willing to discuss everything with Alex on her own, than when Casey is involved, even on cases they're both working together. Whatever bad blood they had working together 4 years ago, it's still fresh as far as Olivia is concerned. And it's making it near impossible for the three of them to work together.

Still, it's not her place to try and fix whatever tattered relationship there is to put back together. Not unless it starts having a detrimental affect on their convictions.

"I have enough on my hands without babysitting duty. Besides, she knows what she's doing, Liv. How much more does she need to do to prove that to you?"

Olivia rolls her eyes, for a moment looking more like a petulant child than a woman her age, "I'm sorry that any trust I had in her ability to do her job flew out of the window with her Brady violation and her putting our whole unit in jeopardy."

"Come on, you know that isn't fair," Alex reasons, "if the DA's office can forgive and forget, I think you can too. What, you've never made a poor judgement? Liv, we both know that's not true. Besides, it's been nearly a year since she returned to work, and how many cases has she prosecuted for you in that time? I'm not asking you to kiss and make up, I'm just saying you ought to give her a chance. And isn't this wasting more of that time you apparently don't have?"

"It is," Olivia concedes. "Will you tell her that it was a dead-end, and that I don't want her involving my squad with any more digging on this case? We have enough on our plates without going on wild goose chases."

"She's just building our case. We've got little to nothing. We _need_ to do that digging. But I'll tell her."

She doesn't question why it's Olivia in her office and not the captain. It's probably better not to ask.

**A/N: **please note my understanding of the US law is very basic so case-specific stories like this one are likely to be not entirely detail accurate. Hopefully you can forgive me.


End file.
